


If My Wings Should Fail Me

by grammarglamour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grammarglamour/pseuds/grammarglamour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam accidentally wishes himself into a set of wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If My Wings Should Fail Me

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long, long time ago.

_Dammit_ , Sam thought as he tripped over a root and flew ass over appetite into a puddle of water, _sometimes I wish I could just sprout wings and fly away from all this._

They'd been chasing a nasty poltergeist around some house that had probably seen action in the Revolutionary War and after a while, the thing got bored and started chasing them back.

Sam rolled out of the puddle and shook himself off. It was cold and it smelled like rotting leaves, which meant that he was now cold and smelled like rotting leaves. As he stood, reaching his arms up, the sleeve of his shirt caught on a tree branch, ripping off a strip.

He looked at it fluttering in the breeze and growled in frustration. "I really liked that shirt!" he yelled.

"So rip the sleeves off and wear it like that," Dean said as he came over the hill to stand next to Sam. He had a nasty cut above his eye and favored his right leg as he walked.

"First mullet rock, now mullet fashion. Thanks, Dean," Sam said, stalking away from his brother and in the direction of the Impala.

"You know, with that hair, all you'd need is a trim up front and you'd have the beginnings of some pretty impressive hockey hair yourself. You should think about it!" Dean called after him, laughing.

Sam's only response was a raised middle finger.

Back at the car, Dean said, "We're just gonna stay out here a minute while you dry off."

"Oh come _on_ , Dean," Sam whined. "Your car has seen worse than a little pond water!"

"Oh come _on_ , Sam," Dean mimicked. "That doesn't mean I have to go abusing her every chance I get."

Sam crossed his arms, huffing in frustration. His breath made a thin puff of steam.

"Did you get the poltergeist?" he asked, teeth chattering as the cold autumn breeze pierced his wet clothes.

"Yeah. Strong son-of-a-bitch, but I got him," Dean said.

"Good."

Sam could smell the scent of pond water all over his shirt and in his hair, that bitter scent of rotten vegetation and stagnant water. Silt had settled in between his fingers, scraping as he rubbed his hands together.

Dean reached over and grabbed at Sam's shirt. "Okay, you're dry enough. Let's go."

"Thanks," Sam said wryly, getting in the car.

They drove back to the motel in tired silence, not even bothering to turn on the radio.

Sam felt desperately tired and achy. The pond scum streaked down his face and mud had worked its way into his boots. He raced to the bathroom as soon as he got in the door of the room, knocking Dean aside before he tried to sneak in first.

"Hey, dude, I gotta take a leak!" he yelled through the door.

"You can hold it," Sam yelled back as he undressed.

Dean kicked the door once for good measure, and then Sam heard the tinny noise of the television filter through the door.

He leaned under the spray of the shower and watched the grime that had clung to him wash down the drain. Warmth returned to his fingertips and toes.

As he lifted his arms to wash his hair, he felt tightness in his back. Sighing, he rinsed his hair and turned his back to the spray, hoping it would soothe him. Back injury, falling into fetid puddles – par for the course in the Winchester family business.

The door opened and Dean barged in.

"Sorry. I told you I had to go," he said. "Just stay in there for minute. And you better have left me some hot water."

"You better hurry up, then," Sam said.

"Done," Dean said, flushing the toilet.

"Asshole!" Sam yelled as he jumped out of the way of the scalding hot water.

"Oops! Forgot you were in there." Dean laughed and shut the door.

Sam dried himself off and put on his pajamas. "Shower's all yours," he said, narrowing his eyes at Dean as he left the bathroom.

"You didn't do anything to it, did you?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes.

"No. Unlike you, I have manners."

Sam took his shirt off and slid under the covers, laying on his stomach because his back was killing him, but once he settled in, he was asleep.

What felt like a minute later, there was a gentle shove and Dean hissing in his ear. "Sam. _Sammy_. Wake up!"

"What?" he mumbled, opening his eyes as best as he could.

"There's something wrong with your back."

"I know. I think I hit it when I fell. Got bruised," Sam said, already drifting back to sleep.

" _No_ , Sam, there is something wrong with it. That ain't a bruise," Dean insisted, smacking him lightly on the cheek.

"What? What is it, then?"

Dean pulled him out of bed and shoved him toward the bathroom. He muscled Sam in front of the mirror and opened the medicine cabinet. In the two mirrors, Sam could see his back. Two spots had formed on it, deep purple and swollen.

"What the hell?"

Dean touched one of them lightly and pain shot down Sam's back. He stood there shaking, fear welling up inside him.

"Spider bites?" Dean asked as he held Sam up.

"Fuck. I don't know."

"You feel feverish at all?"

"No."

"Well that's good. Look, we can just stay here for a couple days. If you get worse, we'll go to the hospital. Sound good?" Dean ran his hand through Sam's hair.

"Yeah, good," he said absently.

They went back to bed and Sam fell back to sleep right away, spiraling into a dreamless, dark sleep.

The next morning, his back was worse and he could hardly move.

"Dean," he groaned as he tried to sit up, "I think we need to make that trip to the hospital."

Dean shot up in bed. "Wasswrong?" he slurred, rubbing his eyes.

"My back," Sam whispered, pain making it difficult to talk. "It's worse."

Dean swung his feet over the side of the bed and leaned over to look at Sam. Sam didn't find it too assuring that his first reaction was a gasp.

"Fuck, dude, I don't think they're gonna be able to help you at the hospital."

"What? Don't say that, Dean. What is it?"

"Come on, you gotta get up," Dean said. He put a hand under Sam's arm, pulling him up. They made their way to the bathroom, and Sam winced with every step.

In the bathroom, Dean positioned him in front of the mirror again. And Sam saw. The swollen, purple bumps were split open, little pinpricks of blood dripping out, and from the wounds protruded two wings, pink and leathery like skin left in bathwater too long.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Sam groaned, rubbing a hand over his face and grimacing.

"I wish I was, Sammy," Dean said. He ushered him out of the bathroom, laid him in the bed. "What do you think is causing it?"

"I don't know," Sam said. He thought back to the hunt, back to what might have been out of the ordinary: the old house, the poltergeist literally chasing them out with rusted farm tools, and then falling into the water.

The water. The tree. And his thoughts -- _I wish I could just sprout wings and fly away from all this._

"Crap," Sam said.

"What? You didn't even start looking," Dean said.

"I know. I remembered something. Last night, I feel into that puddle, right? Then I ripped my shirt. Dean, I think it was a Pagan wishing well," Sam said.

Dean laughed loudly. "So you're telling me that you wished for wings and a magic puddle gave them to you?"

"I – yeah. I thought about how . . . how I wished I had wings and could fly away from all this."

"Oh great, cheesy _and_ stupid. What are we gonna do?"

"I guess . . . we'll just see how big they get. If they stay like this, I can hide them under my shirt," Sam said.

Dean ran a finger around the wrinkled wings. "And if not?"

"We'll think about that when we get there," Sam said.

"Okay." Dean sat for a moment, finger poised above Sam's back and mouth open, hesitant. "You really . . . you wish you could fly away? I mean, leave this?"

He didn't say it, but Sam heard it anyway. _Leave me?_

"Sometimes," Sam said. "I wish we could, like, have matching houses and matching hot girlfriends. Not banshees and poltergeists and demons."

"Well, we don't," Dean said, rising. "I'm gonna see about getting you some painkillers."

And that was just _Dean_ , wasn't it? He didn't waste time on wishing and thinking about what could have been. He was the pragmatic one with one eye on the problem and the other on how to fix it. He had tasted something like freedom, and he knew that it was possible to lead a perfectly happy life without chasing evil all over Creation. For Dean, it was all he had and all he knew, therefore all he loved.

Dean rifled around in his bag, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a packet of pills.

"Take one of the pills and wash it down with whiskey," Dean said.

"What? No way," Sam protested.

"It won't kill you," Dean said.

"Forget it."

"Suit yourself." He went into the bathroom and got a glass of water, handed it to Sam with the pills.

He swallowed, feeling the pills slide down his throat. "How does it look?"

"Still pretty bad," Dean said, disappearing back into the bathroom. He came back with a washcloth. "There's some blood . . ."

Sam closed his eyes as he felt the weight of his brother's hand on him, the rough scrape of the washcloth. He could feel Dean run his fingers along the crest of the wings.

"I can feel that."

"Sorry." Dean sounded embarrassed, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.

"No, it's . . . it's okay. It just feels weird. But you can – you know, if you want," he said.

Dean didn't say anything, just resumed running his fingers along the wings. First one finger, then two, then Sam could feel Dean's whole hand on him, rough and strong. He had seen those hands kill and maim, but right then with them caressing so softly, those other things felt like another lifetime.

Dean cleared his throat. "I'll just . . . um . . . I'll hit the books. See if I can find anything about how to reverse this."

"Sounds good," Sam said, drowsy from the pills and Dean's touch. He drifted off to sleep again.

When he woke up, the room was bright with afternoon sun. Dean sat at the table, books piled around himself and Sam's computer. Sam felt like his head was stuffed with yarn.

"Find anything?" he whispered.

"No," Dean said.

"I think – it feels like they grew," Sam said. He concentrated on his back muscles and he felt a flutter of movement.

Dean looked over at him. "Holy crap."

"Christ. What now?" Sam asked, feeling something like a mixture of annoyance and fear roiling in his stomach.

"There's . . . um . . . feathers now." Dean looked down, blinked.

"Oh, awesome," Sam said sarcastically.

Dean knelt down, face level with Sam's, and put his hand on Sam's cheek. "We'll fix this. _I'll_ fix this. Okay?"

"Okay." Sam knew that tone. That tone meant that Dean was on a mission and wouldn't rest until it was completed. He trusted that tone.   
***

The next day, Sam knew the wings had grown like a stop-motion movie. He got out of bed and knew he wouldn't even have to look in the mirror to see their progress. The wings had grown so much that he could feel them against his ass and at the tops of his shoulders. With a little concentration, he spread them, and the _whoosh_ of feathers awoke Dean.

"What's going on?" he asked. Then he saw the wings, and his eyes went wide. "Oh."

"Yeah," Sam said.

"How . . . what's it like?"

"They're heavy." Sam looked to the side, and saw that they were a tawny brown color, matching his hair. "I don't believe this. I mean, demons? Monsters? Sure. But wings, man? That's just . . . wrong."

"It doesn't make any sense," Dean said. "Where did they come from? Why did they grow so fast?"

"It was a wish, Dean. It wasn't supposed to be rational," Sam reasoned. He felt the wings weighing down on him, pulling at the skin and muscles of his back. All the beatings he'd taken from demons and spirits were nothing compared to that feeling. "They're heavy," he said again. "Too heavy."

"What?"

"I feel them . . . ripping off. Falling off. My body is rejecting them," Sam said.

"Shit. Well what does _that_ mean?"

"It means I'm in trouble, Dean. Infections, bleeding . . ."

"Okay, okay. Point taken. What should we do?"

"I don't know. We'll have to keep researching. Look through Dad's book, see if he has anything in there," Sam said. He grabbed some jeans from his bag and put them on. In lieu of a shirt, he wrapped a blanket around himself.

As they sat looking through their books, Sam noticed Dean sneaking glances at him.

"What?"

"What, what? Nothing," Dean said.

"Come on. You keep _looking_ at me."

"Pardon me for being worried."

"Well, don't. I'll get out of this. I always do." Sam flung another useless book out of his way. "Did Dad's book turn anything up?"

"Not yet. But there's a lot of stuff in here."

Sam sighed and shook his head in frustration. He'd told Dean not to worry, but he couldn't follow his own advice. They were so heavy, and apart from cutting them off himself, he saw no other way for them to go away.

"Okay, this looks promising," Dean said, jabbing his finger at the book. "Dad's got a doctor listed in here at a hospital in Pennsylvania."

"Do you suppose he's, you know, knowledgeable about our line of work?"

"Probably. I mean, Dad didn't put people in here unless he trusted them," Dean said. He grabbed his phone and dialed. " _Voicemail_ ," he mouthed to Sam. "Hi, Dr. Singer, this is Dean Winchester, John Winchester's son. We got your name from his address book, and . . . um . . . well, my brother and I need to speak with you. My number is 866-907-xxxx."

"So we wait," Sam said when Dean hung up.

"Yep. Now, you need to eat something."

"I don't feel much like eating, Dean."

"You have to anyway. I haven't seen you eat in two days," Dean persisted.

So Sam let Dean go get him a sandwich, and he managed to choke it down even though it felt like eating ash. They whiled away the afternoon watching a _Knight Rider_ marathon on the Sci-Fi channel and arguing over who got to control the remote. Dr. Singer didn't call.

"This doctor could be dead for all we know," Sam said.

"Then why would his voicemail still be up?" Dean asked.

"Well . . . maybe it just happened and no one erased it yet. That's not the first thing I'd do if someone died." And, in fact, it had not been. After Jess died, he kept her voicemail up for a week, calling just to hear her voice on the message.

"Doubt it," Dean reassured him.

It occurred to Sam that whether or not they heard from this doctor, _someone_ would have to remove the wings.

"If, um, if he doesn't call back, can you . . . I mean, this needs to be done ASAP. I don't know what might happen if I just let them fall off on their own. How long it might take. So if this guy doesn't call, you'll need to cut them off."

Dean laughed, and it sounded hollow. "That would be nice and symbolic, wouldn't it?" he muttered.

"Come on, Dean –"

"All right, all right. Don't let it ruffle your feathers. If it comes to that, you know I will."

"Okay. And that feather joke? Not cool," Sam said, pointing a finger at Dean. But he was smiling anyway.

He stood to stretch, and the blanket slipped off his shoulders. The room was chilly, but it felt good. He felt restless, and the crisp air helped him focus. Dean stared at him, stared at the wings.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean didn't say anything, just rose and stood face-to-face with Sam. He reached a shaking hand out and stroked one of the wings. They quivered at the touch, and Sam shuddered along with them. He knew that the moment should feel weird and wrong, but it didn't.

"Dean –" he said.

"Don't – don't say anything," Dean replied, voice cracking. He ran his hand down to where the wing met Sam's back and stroked the seam, still throbbing with pain. The light pressure made Sam grit his teeth, but he didn't say anything.

He wished he could pretend he didn't see this coming, but the truth of the matter was that it had been boiling under the surface for a long time. Each of them was the only one that the other had. How could anyone else fit into the equation? Feelings he'd had since adolescence, feelings he'd had to push down far into the deepest recesses of his mind, surged forward. Everything he learned in Anthro 101 about the one universal taboo flew out the window. Sam spread the wings and brought them forward, letting them swathe Dean in russet softness.

Dean inhaled sharply, breath hitching in his throat. "I'm so sorry, Sammy."

"For what?"

"This – I mean, I should have better control over myself."

"Well, do you see me resisting?" Sam whispered.

"I guess I don't." Dean angled his face up and let his lips brush against Sam's.

Sam responded by reaching his hands up to cup his brother's face. He opened his lips and let his tongue slide out and into Dean's mouth. Everything he knew said it was wrong. It was a guy; it was his brother. But instinct said otherwise. Instinct said it was exactly what he should be doing, should have done long ago. So he kept going.

They fell onto the bed, Sam on top, grinding against Dean in a cloud of feathers. He could feel Dean's cock through their jeans, feel its length and hardness. Sam was hard, too, and the way Dean smiled at him, alive with eager surprise, let him know that he knew it. He moved his hips, undulating gently, and the friction of his cock against the rough denim and Dean's body blurred his vision. Dean picked up the rhythm, holding onto Sam's waist with a bruising grip. Sam fumbled between them and undid their jeans, pushing down their underwear as best he could. They continued to pulse against one another until both came, panting and grunting.

Dean relaxed, body limp and skin shiny with sweat. "This is a new level of weird," he said.

Sam reached for a handful of fast food napkins on the table next to the bed and wiped both of them off before laying his head on Dean's chest. "Yeah, it really is."

Dean reached his arm around Sam and asked, "How do you feel? I mean, not about this, 'cause I'm guessing it's pretty much the same as how I feel, which is 'weirded out' with a side of 'that was great', but I meant with the wings."

"Same, I guess."

"I suppose that's better than them being worse."

"Yeah. I just want to sleep," Sam said, voice slow and drowsy.

"That's fine," Dean replied, tightening his grip around Sam.

Sam drifted to sleep, the feeling of protection offered by Dean's arms overshadowing the pain in his back.   
***  
They were awakened by Dean's phone.

"Hello?" he asked, voice clouded with sleep. He disentangled himself from Sam and sat up. "Dr. Singer, good to hear from you."

They talked and Sam looked on anxiously. There was the inevitable small talk. _No, sir, he passed away. Yes, sir, a great loss. Line of duty, you might say that. You know what he did for a living?_ Finally, they got to the point.

"Yeah, Sam got himself into a bit of a situation. Well, long story short, he sprouted wings. No, sir, I'm not joking."

Sam listened to Dean's side of the conversation absently. His mind was elsewhere. He thought about earlier, about how good it had felt. Dean understood him in a way that Jess never had. Never could. A way that Sam would never let her. But she was still everything he wanted – supportive, normal, loving. After her, how could he ever find another woman? And Dean was . . . well, Dean was hot. He had always known that. Trailing behind him and Dad all those years, he'd noticed things that they had missed. Everyone looked at Dean – men, women, young, old. Dean knew how to use it, knew that people thought he was attractive, and knew that would get him into a lot of places. But Sam didn't think that Dean knew the extent of it. In a perverse way, it was flattering to know that Dean could flirt with anyone, get any cocktail waitress's phone number, but at the end of the day, Sam came first.

"We have to be in Pennsylvania by tomorrow afternoon," Dean announced, flipping his phone shut.

"We can do that," Sam said, springing into action. He buttoned his jeans as he started throwing things back into his duffel bag. "You know, Dean –"

"Don't, Sammy," Dean pleaded. "Let's just get on the road, okay?"

"Okay." Ultimately, Sam guessed there was nothing to say anyway, so he didn't pursue it. It was fitting, though. They weren't exactly raised in "society".

Sam wrapped himself in a blanket and got in the car. The wings were crushed against the seat, his back constantly aching. Dean knew to drive fast, and they sped off west to Pennsylvania.

He slept most of the way, keeping himself under the haze of Dean's painkillers. They made him tired, but it was the buzz of the road that lulled him to sleep.

When they stopped, the neon pink of a motel sign worked its way under Sam's eyelids.

"Are we here?" he mumbled.

"Yeah, come on," Dean said, gently pulling Sam up and out of the car.

Sam leaned on him as they walked to a room just like all the other rooms before it. Dean took off Sam's jeans and shoes, tucked him into bed. He felt Dean's lips on his forehead and hand in his hair before drifting back to sleep.

The sun was just breaking through the dusty curtains of the room, highlighting the streaks on the sliver of window he could see, dust motes in fiber optic relief against the brown paneling on the walls, when Sam fully woke. There was a low rumble of voices. He turned to look, and Dean sat at the table with a man about the same age as his father, though far less worn.

"Dr. Singer?" he asked.

"That's me," he said cheerfully. "You must be Sam."

Sam sat up, leaned forward to shake the doctor's hand. "Hi. Um, nice to meet you."

Dr. Singer gave a low whistle as he saw the wings. "Your brother sure wasn't joking, was he? Can I take a look?"

"Please do," Sam said.

As Dr. Singer poked and prodded, Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked on with his brows furrowed, elbows on knees, body wound up and ready to spring into action.

"I've seen stranger things, I guess, but not by much," Dr. Singer said. His fingers, cool and dry like plain paper, dug into Sam's shoulders, feeling for the base of the wings.

"Same here," Sam said.

"This should be fairly easy. They're just barely holding on to some nerves and tissue. We can do it here if you'd prefer," he said.

"That seems –"

"Unorthodox? Sam, I've been patching up hunters for a long time. Wouldn't be the first time I performed minor surgery in a dingy motel room. It's not ideal, sure, but it's safe if you take care of yourself," Dr. Singer said, laying a fatherly hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Okay. Let's do it here, then."

He probably should have been scared, but he'd gotten hurt before. He'd had Dean sew up cuts for him before, and if he trusted Dean to do it with a sewing kit and nothing but vodka for sterilization, he could trust this situation.

"All right. I'll give you something strong to knock you out again. It should keep you under. Dean, you'll need to go into the bathroom and mix some cornstarch with some water. When we're done here, scrub the bed. There's going to be a lot of blood and we can't have it look like a murder scene in here," Dr. Singer instructed as he set out his instruments.

"But we don't have any –"

"Before I was a doctor, I was a Boy Scout. I always come prepared. Look in the black duffel bag I brought. There's some bleach in there, too."

"Oh. Okay," Dean said, narrowing his eyes at Dr. Singer. Sam knew what he was thinking, because he was thinking the same thing. _Is this guy for real? Did we make a mistake by trusting him?_ They had trusted him because they both invariably banked on their father's sense of paranoia. He wouldn't put anyone in the journal who couldn't be trusted.

"Ready?" he asked Sam.

Sam nodded. Dr. Singer injected him with something, and in minutes, his eyelids drooped and he couldn't hold a thought for more than a second. He slumped on the bed and fell into a sleep that made the sleep he'd gotten on the painkillers seem restless.   
***  
The first thing he noticed upon waking was an incredible lightness. The next thing he noticed was pain unlike any he'd ever experienced. He groaned, and Dean was by his side in an instant.

"How're you feeling?"

"Like shit," Sam moaned. "Are they gone?"

"Yeah. He did a good job. Says you're gonna be fine," Dean whispered.

Dr. Singer appeared, carrying a glass of water. Sam drank it, spilling a little, before laying his head down again.

"Still sleepy," he said.

"Don't worry about it," Dr. Singer said. "I'll stay with you guys until morning. Dean, there are some things to go over."

"Sure thing," Dean said. As he stood, his hand rested on Sam's face. There was a faint pressure of fingertips and a brief reassuring stroke of fingernails.

He drifted in and out of drug-hazed dreams as the doctor gave instructions to Dean about changing the dressing and removing the stitches. His words wound themselves around Sam's dreams.

A day later and Dr. Singer was gone, leaving Dean and Sam alone in the motel room. Dean sat on the bed with him, looking through the newspaper for their next destination. It felt sort of domestic. Sam liked the feeling of being warm and safe, fleeting as it was. They'd be off again soon enough, killing evil. He knew, though, that even when he wasn't warm, he was safe, because Dean was there to take care of him.

"I'm glad I didn't actually manage to fly away," Sam said.

"Oh Jesus. Here we go," Dean said, rolling his eyes.

"Always gotta have your sarcastic little walls up, don't you?" Sam said.

"And you've always gotta make it into a Lifetime movie, don't you?" Dean replied.

"Whatever. You don't have to say it, but I know you're glad I didn't fly away, too," Sam replied.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said. "All right, well, we've got some interesting animal mutilations in Illinois. Wanna give it a shot? I'm sure there's something needs killing over there."

"Sure, Dean. Whatever," Sam said, smiling.

"Smug little bastard," Dean said. He laid his hand on the side of Sam's neck and started to lean in, but hesitated.

"No, it's okay," Sam whispered.

Dean smiled and leaned in the rest of the way, kissing Sam fiercely. His mouth was all over Sam's, tongue sliding in and out, teeth nipping gently. The newspaper slid to the floor as Sam aligned his body flush with Dean's, arms grasping his torso, his neck, any part that could be reached. Wings or no wings, Sam was so terrified, he felt like he was flying. Maybe his wish had been rational after all, if slightly misinterpreted.   
***  
They went back to hunting after a couple more days of rest. There was no physical reminder of the wings for Sam. His back didn't hurt, nothing had gotten infected. He knew he had scars, though. At night, in bed with Dean, when Dean thought he was asleep, he would feel shaking fingers drag diagonally across his shoulder blades. Sometimes, the wetness of lips. He would smile and let his brother think he was asleep.


End file.
